


White Knight

by silentdescant



Series: Snapshots [22]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Bruises, Fights, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8321017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: “Mitchy, you’re bleeding,” Scott breathes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> KINKtober Day 18: Blood/Gore

Mitch’s blood is singing through his veins like fire, racing to his tense fingertips, his shaking legs, his contorted face. He can’t even think past the indescribable urge to enact violence; his hands clench into tight fist, nails biting into his palms. Some part of his mind recognizes the pain, but he can’t really feel it. He’s vibrating with anger, and his cheeks are glowing red, so flushed Mitch is sure his skin is melting.

The guy does not fucking stop, and before Mitch even realizes he’s moving, they’re on each other. Mitch shoves him, hard, and the guy stumbles two steps and comes right back with a punch. Mitch isn’t thinking clearly enough to duck or even move out of the way, and the man’s fist lands right across his cheek, snapping his head to the side.

White noise fills Mitch’s ears and he launches at the guy again, arms flying. He doesn’t punch so much as slap and scratch; his nails are long enough and Mitch is determined enough to draw blood, and the streak of red across the man’s jaw is thrilling and extremely satisfying. In his frenzy he rips the man’s shirt and gets a knock to the face in return, and Mitch rocks back on his heels, dazed.

The man’s speaking again, sneering and snapping, but Mitch can’t hear a word of it. He can’t hear anything beyond the rush of blood. It doesn’t matter. He can read the man’s disgusted expression, the way his lips curl with cruel, sick pleasure. Mitch wants to hit him again, scratch his ugly fucking face until nothing recognizable remains. He surges forward, intent on clawing the asshole’s fucking eyes out.

He can’t, though, and it takes him a moment to work out why: Scott’s wrapped tight around Mitch’s torso in a bear hug, pinning Mitch’s arms to his sides as he hauls Mitch away. He lifts Mitch off the ground and spins them off the sidewalk, out into the street, between the honking cars until they’re no longer in front of the club.

There are still people all around, watching curiously, but this side of the street is way less crowded, and there’s actually room to breathe. Scott crowds Mitch against the wall of a burger joint and stands purposefully between Mitch and the other guy. He’s still shouting from across the street and Mitch pushes against Scott’s restraining arm desperately.

“Stop it! Mitch, _stop_ ,” Scott’s screaming at him. His voice finally penetrates the haze clouding Mitch’s brain and his tone is so forceful that Mitch instinctively quiets and shrinks back against the wall.

Awareness slams back to Mitch and all at once he can hear the noise of the street chatter, the thudding music of the clubs, the sluggishly moving cars honking and revving.

“Mitchy, you’re bleeding,” Scott breathes. “What the fuck happened, baby, I turned around and you—What happened?”

Now that Scott’s said that, Mitch suddenly feels the throb of a bruise forming on his cheek. His nose aches too, but surely Scott would be freaking out more if it was broken. Mitch reaches up to touch it, tenderly pinch the bridge between the fingers of both hands.

“Oh, ow. _Ow_ ,” he whimpers. His face is wet with tears he wasn’t even aware of shedding—he’s still crying, he realizes. His body vibrates with rage, but he thinks his hands are shaking for a different reason. Mitch is pretty sure he’s sobbing.

“Mitch, look at me,” Scott says forcefully, which means he’s probably said it more than once. He nudges Mitch’s hands away from his face and tucks his fingers under Mitch’s chin to tilt his head back.

Scott’s dismayed expression is enough to make the pain roar to full intensity. “I’m sorry,” Mitch whispers.

“You’re okay, you’re fine,” Scott says quickly. “Your nose is bleeding… kind of a lot. But it’s okay. Are you okay? Do you feel okay?”

“My face hurts,” Mitch replies.

“Do you have a concussion? How do you know if you have a concussion?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I do. It just… hurts. _Fuck_ , I’m sorry.”

A drag queen in full makeup cuts in, touching Scott’s shoulder so he’s stop crowding Mitch against the brick wall. She meets Mitch’s gaze. “Are you okay, hon?”

Mitch nods. “I’m fine now, thanks. Gave as good as I got.” His neck aches too, _shit_. He actually got beat up. He probably didn’t give nearly as good as he got.

She gives Scott a long, threatening look before moving on, which makes Mitch laugh. Beyond the physical hurts, he’s feeling more clear-headed now, which is a relief. It seems to relieve Scott, too; he exhales slowly and his shoulders slump so he’s no longer towering over Mitch so completely. Mitch knows Scott’s protective instincts run deep; this must be torture for him, to see Mitch hurt when he likely could’ve stopped it.

“Why were you fighting?” Scott asks quietly.

“He was saying… ugly things. I don’t want to think about it.”

“About you?”

“Some of it.”

Scott narrows his eyes. “About me?”

Mitch hesitates, memories of the asshole’s snide, degrading comments coming back to him unbidden. “Some of it.”

Scott’s expression softens. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“I don’t know, I think I handled it pretty well,” Mitch replies haughtily. Scott could’ve probably knocked him out, though, or at least acted intimidating enough to avoid a fight altogether. Scott has several inches on the guy and way more muscle mass. Mitch can’t remember what, exactly, he accomplished, but—he inspects his fingernails—he definitely drew blood. So that’s something.

Scott doesn’t answer, which leads Mitch to believe he didn’t do as well in the fight as he thought. He puts his hands on Mitch’s shoulders and pulls him away from the wall.

“Let’s get you home and cleaned up. Not that this isn’t a good look for you.”

Mitch licks his upper lip and tastes blood. He can feel it drying on his chin, now, sticky and warm. “Sexy, right?” he asks.

“It’s working for me,” Scott murmurs. “You’re like my knight in shining armor.”

“Fuck yeah, I am.”

Scott leans in and kisses Mitch’s chin, on the side of his face that isn’t throbbing in pain. It feels nice; Scott’s lips are soft and gentle. Mitch turns slightly, enough to catch Scott in a real kiss before he pulls away. Mitch’s nose flares with pain when it bumps Scott’s and he lets out a little gasp; Scott immediately tilts his head further to deepen the kiss without hurting him.

Mitch tastes Scott and he tastes his own blood, and the sharp scent of it fills his nostrils, but it’s strangely not terrible. Mitch wraps his arms around Scott’s neck and moans softly. He wants to go home, wants Scott to clean the blood off his face. He wants a shitload of painkillers and maybe some ice.

“So hot,” Scott says. “So protective. I love it.”

“Even when I’m a mess?” Mitch asks.

“Especially when you’re a mess.”

Scott closes the distance between them again and this time he presses his tongue flat to Mitch’s chin, loosening the dried blood. He pushes his tongue into Mitch’s mouth next, and the acrid taste is soothed by Scott’s kiss, muted into something almost enjoyable.

Scott finally pulls back and takes out his phone to call an Uber. Mitch retrieves his phone too and taps the camera. There’s not really enough light by the side of this restaurant to see his face clearly, but Mitch takes in the dark shadow of blood smeared across his chin. It dripped down his neck, too; there’s a stain on the collar of his shirt. His nose is coated in crusty red, and there’s even a few drops up by his eye. He snaps a couple of quick pictures. He looks like he got the shit beat out of him, and the bruise isn’t even visible in the low light.

Mitch can feel it, though. He’s honestly surprised, seeing the state of his face now, that it doesn’t hurt worse. Some ice would be great, though.

“You okay?” Scott asks.

Mitch lowers his phone, slides it back into his pocket. “I’m okay,” he says. “Take me home and take care of me.”

“Absolutely.”

 

 _fin_.


End file.
